Anatomy of a Boyfriend

by Daria Snadowsky

  “Wes?” I gasp as I bolt into an empty stall.

  “Hey, Dom. How are you doing?” His voice is upbeat, like he just finished a run and is on the endorphin high. If we were together, he’d probably want to have sex right now.

  “How am I doing? How are you doing? I was so worried about you! I was thinking about calling your parents!”

  “Babe, calm down, I’m fine…. Are those toilets flushing? You’re not in another Porta Potti, are you?”

  He laughs.

  I take a deep breath, realizing I’m literally panting. “No. I’m in the bathroom at a stupid dance. Why didn’t you get back to me earlier?”

  “I told you I had midterms.”

  So? When you were on another continent during spring break you still managed to e-mail me every day!

  “Right…midterms. Sorry, Wes, I didn’t think about that.”

  “I pulled two all-nighters this week, and after the last test yesterday I just crashed. Sounds like you’ve had a rough time of it too, huh?”

  “Tell me about it.” I wipe my forehead with some toilet paper. “I got killed on my bio midterm, and my prof was a complete ass to me, so needless to say I’m not feeling my most gung ho about premed.

  Staying at Chapin’s has been fine, but I can’t stand not having my own space.”

  “Well, while you’re being exiled, I was sexiled! When I came back to my room after my test yesterday, I opened the door, and there was Gerard, getting head from this chick he’s in a play with!”

  “Ugh! That’s disgusting! Did you ream him out?”

  “Nah, the whole thing was pretty funny. I just asked him to let me know in advance when he’ll need the room to ‘rehearse’ from now on.”

  I flash back to my failed blow job at the end of the summer, and I start to feel dizzy. I line the toilet seat and sit down, waiting for Wes to invite me to New York. Instead, he starts talking about his training for the marathon.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Wes, but JetBlue has a red-eye leaving for JFK in four hours. That way we can have tomorrow together, and I’d come back Monday night. Sound good?” I say all in one breath.

  “You know I’d love that, but I have pool duty all Sunday.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised, thinking that sounds awfully like something he could get out of if he really wanted to. I mean, I’m the one flying hundreds of miles. “There’s no one you could switch with?”

  “Normally I could, but not with this short notice and on a holiday weekend. Sorry, Dom, I know you need to get away.”

  “Yeah, well.” I don’t bother hiding my disappointment.

  “Dom, I want to talk more, but I’m supposed to meet up with some people to see a movie, so I better get going.”

  “Oh, okay, have fun. Who are you going to meet?”

  “Jim, Schroeder, Betsy, Kim, Jess, her roommate.”

  “Wow…It’s great you’ve made so many new friends. I know you were worried about having a hard time meeting people.”

  “Yeah, everyone’s great.”

  “That’s awesome. I look forward to meeting them all one day. The people here are great too.”

  “I’m glad. So I’ll call you tomorrow, Dom.”

  “Sure, okay. I love you, Wes.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  I obviously didn’t look at the academic calendar very carefully because tonight Chapin informs me Tulane does not observe Columbus Day. I can’t afford another bio absence, so as it turns out, not going to New York was the luckiest thing that happened to me all weekend.

  Ifly back to Fort Myers the day before Thanksgiving, which also happens to be Grandma’s seventy-fifth birthday. We celebrate by taking her out to high tea. The restaurant Mom chooses this year is in the fancy hotel where Wes and I spent prom night, so it conjures up some nice memories and is a welcome change after Tulane’s cafeteria.

  Yesterday at the all-dorm meeting Calvin warned us that going home for the first time during college can be disorienting, even depressing. I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s true everything feels a little different, more provincial somehow. Dad looks shorter, Mom more wrinkled, my room drabber. Even Fort Myers itself seems gray and dingy. But eating together with Grandma is like old times.

  “Dominique, sit up straight!”

  “Yes, Grandma.”

  “Dominique, couldn’t you have styled your hair today?” She turns to Mom. “Don’t you ever take her to a beauty salon?”

  Mom answers calmly, “Dommie landed only two hours ago.”

  Dad chimes in, “Dom has beautiful hair.”

  “Styled hair is the ultimate ornament for a lady,” Grandma proclaims, lightly patting her red-dyed coiffure. Then she lowers her gaze at me. “And disheveled hair is the surest sign of an unkempt mind.”

  I roll my eyes as I pop a cucumber sandwich.

  “At least your blessings are looking nice and full,” she adds, reaching out to pat my left breast.

  I jerk away as Dad sputters tea back into his cup. “Grandma, please!” I whisper sharply. Mom’s giggling behind her napkin.

  Fortunately, my phone rings a second later, and I excuse myself even though Grandma gives me her you’re-being-terribly-rude look, as if feeling me up during high tea is good table manners. I scurry around booths and service carts to the privacy of the lobby.

  “Hi, Wes! Oh my God. We’re in driving distance again.”

  “Heya, Dominique. Howya doin’?” Wes forces a New York accent.

  I laugh. “You’ll never guess where I am right now. The Sanibel Regal Resort!”

  “Where?”

  “Um…where we spent prom night?”

  “Oh, right. Why are you there?”

  “It’s Grandma’s seventy-fifth, so we’re taking her out.” Then I whisper, “It’s so weird being where we…you know…and with my parents!”

  “Heh, I bet.”

  “Anyway, when can I see you?”

  “Well, I just landed, and I was going to hang out with Art for a little and watch some of the Family Guy marathon. Uh, how ’bout I head over to your place around, say, six?”

  “Yeah, six is cool. I’ll use the extra time in between to shower and unpack and help Mom in the kitchen and stuff.” Then I whisper, “Um, we’ll be able to use the condo, right?”

  “Yeah. My grandparents will be staying in the City until Christmas. Oh, I see my mom at baggage claim.

  I better go.”

  “Say hi to her for me. And, Wes, I’m so looking forward to being together tonight.”

  “Can’t wait either. Bye.”

  At :, Wes pulls up in his Explorer. He’s wearing a holey T-shirt, his jeans are ripped, his hair is longer—almost chin length—and he’s completely unshaven. He smells of the cologne I gave him the night before we left for college, though, which makes up for his being late.

  “Mom freaked when she saw me,” he says as I climb in the passenger seat. “She’s dragging me to the barber Friday morning.”

  I reach over and French him, which feels funky with his beard brushing against my cheek. Then I sit back and watch him as he navigates the holiday weekend traffic on our way to the Captiva condo. To my delight we kiss at every red light, and he keeps his hand on my thigh as he drives. When we’re almost there I put my hand in his lap and lightly trace the inseam of his jeans, which makes him hard. We’re both so wound up with desire we’re not talking much, but we’re all over each other as soon as we get in the condo.

  Right before he thinks we’re about to have sex and asks for a condom, I say, “Actually, I have a Thanksgiving present for you that’s way overdue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a package of extra-thin strawberry-flavored condoms out of my purse. “Use one of these this time. I just bought them.”

  “Why—Oh. Okay.”

  I huddle over him as he rolls it on, and then without giving myself time to think about it, I drop my head and start licking and kissing the length of his penis. Wes sighs as he c
rosses his arms behind his head and relaxes his body.

  I stop for a second and ask, “Is this okay so far?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I think you can say that.”

  It occurs to me that hunching over his crotch might not be the prettiest sight, so I pull the blanket over my head.

  “Dom.” He pulls the covers off. “I want to watch.”

  Self-consciousness wells up inside of me, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to go through with this after all.

  Somehow it feels more up close and physical than actual sex, and I don’t want Wes watching the slobbery mess of it all. But I just have to succeed this time, or else I’ll keep agonizing about it.

  I close my eyes and take the head into my mouth. I’m afraid I’m going to bite him accidentally, so I keep my lips tightly pursed over my teeth. I get only half of his penis inside before I feel like I’m going to gag.

  So I continue to suck just the top half of it and bob my head up and down slightly. The more I do it, the more I’m able to fit in my mouth. Unfortunately, the condom does not taste like any strawberry made by nature—imagine sucking on a rubber band dipped in Kool-Aid. I don’t know why they call it a blow job either, because I’m not really blowing anything, but it is a job. My neck and shoulders are sore from

  bending over, and I barely have sensation left in my jaw by the time he comes.

  “Dom…I really enjoyed that,” he says a few seconds later.

  “Well, in that case, I plan to do it often,” I say cheerily as I peel off the condom.

  Wes sits up. “Now your turn.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hell yeah, I’ve been wanting to for months, but you said you wouldn’t let me until you did it to me first.

  So now you did.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” I smile.

  Unfortunately, it takes a while before we find a comfortable position. First he kneels over me, but this doesn’t work because my privates do not project up and out like his. Then I try sitting in one of the steel dinette chairs as he kneels on the floor in front of me, but before he touches me I tell him I can’t relax this way—the seat’s too hard and cold. Finally I get back on the bed and let my legs hang off the edge. Wes kneels at the foot of the bed and I rest my thighs on his shoulders. This feels right.

  Before he starts, he tells me, “Just so you know, I’ve never gone down on a Tulanian before.”

  I grab a pillow and whack him over the head.

  “You’ve never gone down on anyone before, ever.”

  “I know, I know.” He grins.

  Then I remember. “Wait. In my purse, you’ll find some dental dams I bought. They’re strawberry flavored too. Your favorite.”

  “C’mon, Dom.” Wes sits back on the floor. “We don’t need that stuff. I want to taste you, not latex.”

  “Please, though? It’d make me feel better knowing we’re being completely safe.”

  “You know neither of us has been with anyone else. And in truth, it’d probably ‘feel better’ without the stupid dams, but you’re the boss.”

  He seems really pissed, so as he rummages through my purse, I say, “Actually, just forget about the dams.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah…well, you don’t have any cold sores or anything now, do you?”

  “You sure know how to keep a guy turned on, Dr. Dom.”

  I sit up, wanting to slap myself. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I…I don’t know why I have to be like that. I really didn’t mean to wreck the mood.”

  “Calm down, will you? I was just teasing you. Lie back down and keep quiet. I have work to do,” he says sternly as he rips open the dam’s packaging.

  Amy says oral sex is the absolute best thing a guy can do to a girl. And she’s right—there’s none of the pain of penetration. Sex with Wes didn’t stop hurting until the eleventh time we did it, back in July. Even after that it was often uncomfortable, especially in the beginning. But tonight, for the first time ever I sense a nice, light, pulsing sensation down there that makes me arch my back, and I can feel my face get flushed. I wrap my legs around his head and try to move with him, but suddenly I lose the feeling and don’t regain it.

  Maybe Wes is right about the dam dulling the pleasure. Or maybe Amy’s right that I’m too self-conscious. But maybe it’s not that simple. What if I’m frigid? Or what if all my nerve endings down there just don’t work? I was always scared I damaged myself that time in seventh-grade gym class when I was walking across the balance beam and tripped, falling straight down onto it with my legs at either side. Maybe I’ll never come, ever.

  I can tell Wes is starting to get tired, so I decide to fake it. I feel bad, but supposedly women do it all the time, and I want Wes to feel like he’s doing well. I also don’t want him to think I’m some asexual freak. I tousle his hair with my hands and wrap my legs around him tighter as I mimic the moans I heard Caitlin make that weekend I stayed with her and Chapin. Finally I yell, “Yes, Wes…YEEEES!”

  A couple seconds later his face pops up between my legs. I’ve never seen him so pleased with himself before.

  “Not bad for my first try, eh, Dom? I knew I had it in me.”

  “Mmm,” I sigh, lounging on the bed. “That was wonderful.”

  Wes lies down next to me and holds me, but after just a few seconds he says, “Paul called before and said a bunch of trackies are meeting at Bellini’s around nine. Why don’t we meet them there?”

  “Oh…Well, I was sorta hoping we could spend this evening alone.”

  “I know, but it’ll be fun to see everyone again. Maybe Braff will be there.”

  “No, she won’t. She’s spending Thanksgiving with Joel and his family in Wichita.”

  “If you’re not up for it, I can drop you home first.”

  “What? No, Wes, I’m game. Really.”

  “Cool. But before we do”—he traces the outlines of my lips—“can you, uh…again?”

  This time I skip the condom, even though I yelled at Amy God knows how many times back in high school for routinely having unprotected oral sex with her random hookups. But Wes isn’t random. And right now all I care about is how good I can make him feel, how close we are right now. I’m able to swallow most of his semen as it shoots into my mouth, and I’m surprised at the lack of taste given how much stuff is in it—glucose, fructose, vitamin C, vitamin B, sulphur, zinc, potassium, magnesium, calcium, copper. It’s like a perverted multivitamin.

  Dinner at Bellini’s turns into dessert at The Bubble Room, which turns into driving to Paul’s beach house

  for drinks, which turns into last man standing. I had no idea Wes had become so much more outgoing.

  We’re in a big group, at least fifteen people, and for the first time he’s carrying the conversation and smiling confidently.

  At two a.m. on the ride home from Paul’s, Wes says, “You were awfully quiet, Dom. Were you bored out of your mind?”

  “No, no, I was just tired from the plane. I had a good time, really…anyway, let’s make plans.

  Tomorrow I’ll be busy all day with my family for Thanksgiving. But how ’bout we spend Friday and Saturday at Captiva?”

  “Eh, the problem is I waited too long to book plane tickets, so the only flight I was able to get back to the City is Saturday morning, not Sunday.”

  “Oh…that really sucks, Wes.”

  “You’re telling me, but I’m free Friday after the barber.”

  “Um, okay, yeah, I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Cool. I’ll give you a call Friday, say, around oneish?”

  “Sure.”

  Before getting out of the car in front of my building, I lean over and kiss him. “Happy Thanksgiving, Wes. I have a lot to be thankful for.”

  “Me too, Dom.” Wes winks at me.

  Five minutes later I’m at my computer.

  Dear Wes,

  First let me say that I completely expected that college would change things a little. And I feel bad compl
aining, because I did have a good time with you just now and so many things did go right between us. But the fact you were willing to sacrifice part of the night to see old track friends was strange (especially now that you’re leaving town early). And it’s not like you spent all that much time with them outside of meets last year. I appreciate your trying to include me in the conversation tonight, but I never got to know these people well and I don’t get all their little in-jokes, so understandably I couldn’t think of anything to contribute. I’m sorry if my reticence bothered you, but c’mon, you used to be reticent too.

  Anyway, I guess I felt we were a little off tonight, and I wanted you to know so we can work on fixing it, which I know we will. I’m looking forward to having time just for us on Friday.

  I love you always and forever, Dominique

  I’m about to pressSEND when I realize I’m being unreasonable. All Wes was trying to do was maintain his old friendships. And so what if being at NYU is making Wes less reserved? I should be applauding

  that, not condemning it. I delete the e-mail and go to bed.

  Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, Wes doesn’t call me at one like he promised he would. I pick up the phone to call him but stop myself. I don’t want to appear possessive or overanxious. I’m really angry, though. Maybe I should have sent that e-mail after all.

  On top of everything, I develop a monster headache waiting for the phone to ring. As I’m searching my parents’ bathroom drawers for Tylenol, I come across Mom’s diaphragm. The mental image of my parents doing it when I’ve been waiting all day to do it with Wes is probably the biggest mood-spoiler imaginable, and it takes three tablets before my skull stops feeling like it’s being crushed.

  When I finally do hear from Mr. Elusive, four hours after the promised time, he sounds completely depressed.

  “Wes, are you sure you’re up for hanging out tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you just in a prolonged food coma or something?” I ask, trying to make him laugh.

  Instead, he takes a deep breath. “I’ll be over soon.”